


The taste of raspberries

by HolRose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Aspec friendly., Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Met Before The Fall (Good Omens), Crowley Hung The Stars, Crowley Keeps Pre-Fall Memories (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Fall Crowley (Good Omens), raspberries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27340459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose
Summary: After the failed apocalypse, Crowley has something he wants to explain to Aziraphale. Given that he isn't the most comfortable demon when it comes to his feelings, he decides the best thing to do is show him. This involves a flight and the sharing of old secrets about his life as an angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 46





	The taste of raspberries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/gifts).



> Okay, so I saw [This article](https://www.theguardian.com/science/2009/apr/21/space-raspberries-amino-acids-astrobiology) and got to thinking about why Crowley might have done this, because, lets face it, it had to be him, right? So here’s my story based on this idea. 
> 
> I wrote this for my friend [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) with whom I have had the best late night rambling conversations, who is funny and talented in many ways. I hope you enjoy it, thank you for everything. And you are nice, don’t hiss at me!
> 
> Comments and kudos will be very much appreciated, as ever. Love to all in the fandom, you are all wonderful people.

Aziraphale sat with his delicate silver dessert fork poised over the perfect berries artfully arranged on top of the shell of sponge, that sat, sunset yellow against the white of the plate around it. Pale pink cream meandered through their dimpled forms, the small mouth of each dark opening glistening with the compote they had been filled with.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try dear? The Ritz is famous for this recipe, and the raspberries just now are at their peak, utterly _scrumptious_.”

“No, you dig in angel. I’ll stick with my coffee.”

Crowley watched as the angel gathered his forkful: a corner of cake, a raspberry, a dab of cream, precisely garnered, he knew, to provide the perfect mouthful. The angel’s eyebrows raised slightly as his eyes fluttered closed. There was a little hum, then chewing, then a sigh, and the complex green-blue of his eyes were revealed again as he regarded Crowley with a smile that brimmed with fondness.

“Delicious. I must send my compliments to the chef, they really have outdone themselves this time.”

Crowley, absorbed and happy, merely gave a distracted noise of acknowledgment and continued watching as Aziraphale made inroads into his desert, a contented expression coating his features all the time he chewed and swallowed and made his little, distinctive notes of approbation.

Aziraphale loved raspberries, had what might be called a passion for the fruit. Crowley never failed to notice that, if they were on the menu in any form, the angel’s eye would land upon that item and he would make a little ‘oh’ noise of pleased acknowledgment and order accordingly.

The raspberry is a delicate fruit, once it has been removed from the core that it grows around it is easily crushed, the wine red sap of them spilling out to stain. It doesn’t travel well. Historically, the season was short, merely two to three weeks in July in a fragile English summer. Crowley remembered Aziraphale buying many punnets, muttering about getting them while they were good, eating them like sweets while he read in his bookshop chair, cradling the druplets of each one delicately in his careful fingers to keep the vivid juice away from his precious pages as he turned them.

Now they were dining at the Ritz, free agents after thwarting the legions of Heaven and Hell and supporting a remarkable boy while he made his perfect choice to save the world he loved so well. As Crowley watched the angel he adored eating raspberries, he knew the time had come to tell him exactly why it is he loves the fruit so much. Time to tell him of so many things.

___________________________

Crowley had worked alone, back then, under that other Name that he could no longer bring to mind. Nominally he had been in a team, but he would leave the group and drift away, finding the margins of each project and creating from there back to where the others laboured together. Some saw him as standoffish, but it was more that he was a dreamer, their chatter distracted him, work was all he really cared about, then.

He was clever, he had known it when She spoke him into being, made him stand, looked at him with all the force of Her terrible Love and found him Good. He shone, with the fire and brightness he would bring to the darkness of the firmament. His hands were slim, the fingers long and tapered, he handled the mass of dust and gas and light with precision, and wove together matter to create all the loveliness he had dreamed of. It absorbed him, he did not want to speak, and so he worked, and smiled when spoken to, and drifted off, and they found him odd, and joshed him for it until he could get away from their relentless demands that he join them and be social.

He questioned, even then, when young and fresh and hopeful. He interrogated the materials he was given to mould and create with, asked them: ‘What are you?’ ‘How do you work?’ ‘What acts upon you?’ ‘If I put you together… like this?…like this? What will you become?’

So, when the others were making stars, he asked helium and hydrogen and elemental dust how it might be if he treated them differently. He spun the atoms between his palms and laughed, delighted, as they landed in new patterns. He put the starstuff under pressure, stressed it, compressed it, waited, and let it fly.

In this way he created his nebulae: the violent percussion of a supernova, the exhalation of dust and gasses, shaping the edges of each cloud with stellar wind, priming the matter to give birth to new constellations, each construction a nursery for future stars. It was the potential that interested him. As the work progressed, every shift saw him drifting further way, eyes always on the next innovation, heedless of the way the other angels looked at him sometimes, not caring if he was liked or wanting them as friends. They bored him with their gossip and petty preoccupations.

___________________________

“Are you coming then, or what?”

“Nah, ‘m good, nnngh, gonna go to the labs. I’m sick of presentations, they go on for so loooong and say so little, it’s such bullshit, they could just give us a worksheet, and Gabriel’s far too fond of his own voice.”

“You’d better not let anyone else hear you say that, you idiot.”

Ophiel huffed and turned away. She was always trying to persuade the wayward star-maker to conform, but he wasn’t interested in sitting through another training session about what everyone was calling the ‘Project’, the special planet under development. He was curious about this new world, yes, but he had always been more of a hands-on kind of angel, and he had a good friend in the Plant R&D who was able to give him more concrete information in answer to his questioning. What’s more, there was something else there, or rather, somebody, thoughts about whom had taken up residence in a good part of his brain for quite a long time now.

He had always got on well with Cahethal, a quiet and studious angel who was currently in charge of plant development for this ‘Earth’ that was being constructed in one of the spiral arms of the galaxy that he was currently working on. When the chimes sounded that heralded the end of his shift, he often sauntered across to that part of the City where the huge greenhouses had been erected, finding Cahethal, fingers stained with what he was calling ‘soil’ or over a microscope, stitching cells together and muttering to himself. He’d been so elated when he had figured out chlorophyll and they’d had a little party over the xylem and phloem cells thing.

He was there now in the humid air of the great glass houses, running his fingers over a long strand of green punctuated with serrated leaves. Another figure stood next to him and the star-maker angel felt a smile twitch his lips upwards at the sight.

“I’m not sure about this one. It’s very vigorous,” Cahethal’s voice was soft and low, his brow crumpled as he looked at the berries that were suspended in a cluster at the end of the frond, “it just seems to spread quickly when I plant it anywhere, but the fruit is very fragile, a compound berry as you can see, so easily crushed…”

‘Oh, but dear brother,” the voice was sweet and full of eager pleasure, “the flavour is _sublime_.”

The angel staring up at Cahethal’s thin face with an expression of entreaty was positively glowing with his enthusiasm.

The star-maker had met this angel here for the first time a little while ago. He was very shy and would not meet the other’s eyes for some time after they were introduced. Both were diffident, but shared an interest in the plants that Cahethal’s team were creating to be grown on the new planet. The variety was simply stunning, and they both marvelled at the delicacy of some, robustness of others. Cahethal explained their construction and how some would work together with the insect life being created in another building not far from where the greenhouses stood.

Once the two of them had summoned the courage to really talk with one another, he picked up the feeling that this angel too felt out of step with his siblings. He didn’t speak directly of it, but certain things he did let slip hinted at a tale of difference and ostracisation, shame written on his sweet face where in the mind of the star-maker, it should never find a home. It was true, he was different to look at, not overly tall, rounded and soft, but that was welcome, the softness, approachable, pretty.

  
Aziraphale was his name, he was a cherub, no stern and lofty presence like his brethren but easy to talk to, fretful and kind. The star-maker warmed to him and looked for him every time he visited. It seemed he saw the greenhouses as a refuge in the same way that he himself did. Once he opened up, his enthusiasm for the new planet was infectious, and they talked together, the star-maker looking forward to his visits more and more as time went on. Cahethal for his part was too sweet and distracted to tell either of them that, strictly speaking, they should not be there at all.

Aziraphale, it transpired, was _interesting. O_ nce he felt confident enough to know he would not be dismissed for his ideas, the angel was a revelation. He was fussy, and sharp once he got going and he had _opinions_. They discussed things and when they disagreed the star-maker would sulk provoking Aziraphale to tease him. They grew closer. Sometimes, when he was leaving he would see a look in Aziraphale’s eye as they said goodbye that warmed him from his toes to the top of his head and made him stutter over his valediction. He found himself fascinated. Whatever others might think, this angel was beautiful in his eyes and when they spoke together he felt important and listened to, valued and seen. He dreamed of the other being when he was working, sculpting matter while he wondered how he might declare his affection.

Then there was the whole eating thing. Angels did eat, of course, but more for fuel than any pleasure in the activity. He found the constant manna and ambrosia dull and ate the bare minimum. But Aziraphale had discovered the fruits of the plants that were destined for the Earth, and was entranced, gushing about tastes and textures, his face alight with pleasure. The star-maker was intoxicated by his looks then, the bright blush of his cheeks, how his eyes shone. He knew he was far gone, and was helpless in the grip of this particular love.

Angels loved, of course they did, but were they meant to love like this? It was another question, and in lieu of any answers, he just let the feeling take him.

It was to be that day that he gave in to his heart. Cahethal walked away with the plant, leaving Aziraphale, his robe hitched up slightly, a little harvest of the vivid red berries shining in the small pouch he had made at the front of it.

“These are _so good_ , even you would love them. My dear, you must try one.”

A berry was held aloft by his mouth, he took it, lips lingering about the tips of those fingers for a moment. Aziraphale blushed and held his eyes with his own, emotion welling within their blue-green depths.

“Oh,” was all he said at the contact, and holding the star-maker in his gaze, he slipped another berry between his plump pink lips that shone wetly where he had licked them, chewing slowly and then swallowing with a small pleased exhalation.

Acting on an impulse rising in him that would not be denied, he closed the gap between them and brushed his mouth against Aziraphale’s, savouring his softness and the taste of raspberries. There was a moment of stillness, their lips warmly pushed together, and then the cherub was returning his kiss, hot mouth moving against his and sturdy arms slipping about his waist. He buried his fingers in paper-white curls and they sighed together, Aziraphale growing pliant against his body. Their lips parted but they remained close, leaning foreheads together and smiling shyly.

“Oh my darling, how I love you.” Aziraphale spoke his devotion like a prayer. His beaming face still rosy, he buried the heat of it in the crook of the star-maker’s neck. They held each other then, both knowing that there was no-one else who could ever matter more.

___________________________

He was nearly finished now, putting the final touches to the centre of the galaxy, casting a dust cloud that would spread out and scintillate once he had conjured up the black hole he deemed fitting to act as its core. He knew the project planet was to be placed in the third position out from a star in one of the western spiral arms, and this fact made it important to him to make his work on the construction as perfect as he could: this galaxy would hold his heart, after all.

He felt the tears drying on his face as he worked. Aziraphale had come to him, agitated with his news some while back. He had wrung his hands together while he explained, face working with anguish. A posting, directions from on high, and there was nothing either of them could do to change it.

They had sobbed and clung to each other on the day they said goodbye before Aziraphale left for his training with Cerviel. There would be months of drill and exercises with his sword and then who knew how long away from Heaven, on that little rock living amongst God’s new creatures and the plants they both loved. They had declared their love for each other again and again, each desperate kiss held until they could no longer delay their parting, never to see each other again until the End Times.

This artist, this fiery angel of the cosmos had decided as he worked, quietly, alone, that he would leave a tribute to his soulmate and their love just before the huge whirling shape of the galaxy was complete. It didn’t take long, and nobody noticed it, this legacy of a first kiss, but it would stay there, and he would always know. Some day, at the end, they would be reunited, and he would bring his love to this space, so he could know the terrible immensity of a star-maker’s devotion.

He put the final stars in place, twirled his fingers and set the whole thing in its vast circular motion, moving back to view its splendour. Wiping his hands clean of stardust he turned to leave. He had made some new acquaintances since Aziraphale had left. They had approached him offering answers to many of his questions and, less cautious now, in the absence of his love, he had taken up with them and joined their discussions. He stopped going to the greenhouses entirely, no longer able to look at the plants because of the memories that came with them. Nothing felt like it mattered to him any more, so he took risks, and spoke more of his misgivings. Besides, what was so very wrong about asking questions anyway? He went back quickly to take off his working clothes. Lucifer would be waiting with the other guys, it wouldn’t do to be late.

___________________________

“Aziraphale, do you trust me?”

They were walking, having left the Ritz. Both had felt a need to see some of the city now that the world was safe, and their place in it secure after their ordeals in Heaven and Hell. The night, was a balmy one, the late summer sky was clear and some stars could be seen despite the fierce light pollution of the capital. They had meandered along and now they were stopped facing each other in the depths of Regent’s Park.

“In as much as I could ever trust a wily serpent, yes, of course I do.”

Aziraphale was smiling broadly, he hadn’t stopped since they had reunited in Berkeley Square. His tone was playful and fond. There had been a number of overtly loving looks and blushes throughout their afternoon together, and Crowley didn’t think that it was the alcohol that was entirely responsible. It might be safe, he reasoned to himself, it might be time to say something.

The angel had forgotten him. He had known it immediately he had seen him on that wall. He had gone to greet him smiling, delighted to see his bright face again, only to have his jokey words about a lead balloon, something the old Aziraphale would have taken up and run with, met with a polite and puzzled response.

He found out later that all those remaining in Heaven after the War had been left with no memories from Before. Knowledge of the Fallen had been removed when they lost their Grace and he had to live with the fact that Aziraphale retained no memory of him or of their love. It was as if he had never existed for the angel, another punishment for his disobedience, he later bitterly reflected. If he wanted a connection, he would have to start again with him, and the differences between them made that seem quite impossible to start with.

Being an optimistic soul at heart, he counted himself lucky, in a way. Aziraphale was still very much as he remembered him, and they established a cautious friendship over time. The angel could be hesitant, sure, but he would take what they managed to work out between themselves. There was still that fondness in their banter, the challenge of the to and fro he remembered, with the added piquancy of opposition that he found he rather relished. Better than being apart. Better to pine on Earth than stagnate in Hell. Better by far to be what he was now, and live a carefully curated life of freedom near his angel, than anything else he could imagine having, apart from the thing that he most wanted, that he never believed he would have again.

He did what he could for his angel, met with him, cared for him insofar as he was able to in his new incarnation, and lived with the pain of his love, never entirely regretting that he remembered every bit of it. His disquiet over it eased a tiny fraction each time they became closer, incrementally, as the years rolled by them.

It was painful, near the end, the arguments, his pleading, the agony of rejection from the one person he had ever loved. He kept the knowledge of their connection in his chest, his heart a burnt and withered thing yet bleeding nonetheless for a love he could not extinguish or contain.

Worse, far worse was believing he had lost him altogether, the aching void of absence sucking him into the blackness of despair.

Then he was back, after a time, for the world, and, as Crowley dared to hope, a little for him too. Had known exactly where to find him in his torment. Risked falling to defy his superiors and stand alongside him against Satan himself. Had stayed with him at his flat, taken the initiative to decipher the prophecy, gone as him into Hell and given them a pretty powerful demonstration of his determination to fight for them both.

Aziraphale had told him of his struggle and disillusionment, of what had changed his mind. He had talked of the future, looked meaningfully into his eyes, spoken about ‘our side’. Crowley could only hope it was enough. He needed to do this, he couldn’t wait any longer.

“Fly with me, would you?”

“ _What_?”

“If you trust me, let me take you somewhere. Angel, there’s something I want - no, I need to show you.”

Aziraphale’s expression had grown serious when he heard the plea in Crowley’s voice.

“Alright, I trust you dear. Where are we to go?”

“Take my hand, angel, and I’ll show you.”

Aziraphale reached out to him and he felt the soft broadness of his fingers entwine with his slim ones, his warm palm resting alongside Crowley’s.

“Are you ready?”

The angel nodded and he launched them both into the air.

He was fast, he’d always been fast when he wanted to be. There was no need to breathe as they sped through the stratosphere and on, away from the Earth’s orbit and past the Sun. Soon the solar system they called home was behind them and they were rushing ahead, stars streaming by them as they travelled impossibly quickly. Aziraphale whooped.

“This is marvellous, darling, I haven’t flown properly for so long. Oops! My wings are a _mess_.”

He levelled up alongside Crowley, still gripping his hand, and looked across at him, grinning widely.

_Darling_.

Crowley returned the grin with an open smile of his own, sure now that he was doing the right thing.

They were no longer quite what they had been when they were on the surface of the planet they called home. They still retained a humanoid shape, but were bigger somehow. Aziraphale was bright, his frame barely containing the light of his Grace. Crowley had blurred edges with a hint of the fire that smouldered within him, ancient and powerful. Their great wings beat behind them as they approached the centre of the galaxy that the Romans had dubbed the Via Lactaea. Crowley slowed them down and Aziraphale hung there in space, watching the slow spin of the stars past his many eyes, that blinked in wonder at the sight.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley tugged his arm to get his attention and the angel turned to face him, a puzzled look on his face, “I… I…”

“Tell me Crowley. Whatever it is, I can see it’s important to you, it will be fine.” His voice was kind and Crowley felt a squeeze to his hand, evidently meant as a small encouragement.

“I made some of this, I set some of the stars and the nebula in - into it. I…,“ he stumbled in his speech, “I finished it off, just after you…”

“After I what?”

“After you left, to guard the Garden.”

“ _What_? You knew me, before…?”

“Yes. Angel, I need you to… just taste it, the…”

“The what?”

“Here, near the centre, the stardust, just _taste_ it, and… and tell me what you find.”

Aziraphale looked incredulous, but turned as Crowley nodded to him, leaned in, bending the nature of reality slightly, and took a sip from the mazy haze of iridescent dust close to the heart of the Milky Way.

“Mmmhh,” he closed his eyes as he savoured the taste of it, “gosh…,” his face lit up, “it tastes of raspberries! Crowley, was this your doing? It’s… it’s extraordinary.”

“Yes, angel, I did it for you, because I wanted…”

“ _Crowley_!”

“What? Angel! What’s the matter?”

Aziraphale was clutching at his middle with the hand that wasn’t being held by the demon. The angel’s face was crumpling, tears starting from his eyes as he doubled over in obvious pain. It was as if what he had swallowed had affected him grievously. There was something in the dust wrought by the creator of the wonders at the heart of the galaxy that went to the core of him and revealed secrets long carried in his heart. He remembered the taste of his first kiss, laden with love and the scent of fruit.

“ _Crowley_ , I remember. It _hurts._ Oh, Crowley…”

“ You remember, what?”

“The raspberries, we…”

Crowley moved forward and took the angel’s shoulders in his hands, looking directly into his face.

“What do you remember, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale looked between the stars and the demon, and memory rushed over him, overwhelming his senses for a moment. Crowley was a bright and beautiful thing, coruscated with particles of sparkling dust fragments, just as he had always been Before. His wings glinted in the light of a billion stars and he was magnificent. With a small cry like a wounded animal, he flung himself into the demon’s arms.

“Oh my darling, that I love you, I’ve always loved you, it’s just that I forgot it for a while.”

“I love you too, Aziraphale, I always have.”

Their lips met sweetly and with all the love they shared, from both Before and through their six thousand years together, and once again they shared the taste of raspberries.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t named angel Crowley in this story, so people can decide who he was originally according to their own head canon. Elf and I both like Rahatiel, Angel Prince of the Constellations.
> 
> Thank you for reading, let me know what you think.


End file.
